


Everything You Are

by emmram



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Angst, Multi, Some Constagnan and Porthagnan but not the focus; hence not tagged
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-23
Updated: 2015-10-23
Packaged: 2018-04-27 19:01:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5060293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmram/pseuds/emmram
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Athos clears his throat loudly. “I’d thought we have enough of vanity here with Aramis and Porthos around.”’</i>
</p><p>
  <i>“It’s only hair,” d’Artagnan protests. “My hair is… high-maintenance.”</i>
</p><p>
  <i>Porthos snorts so hard he descends into a coughing fit. </i>
</p><p>Wherein d’Artagnan struggles with grief, identity, love, acceptance, loss, and 17th century hair conditioners.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Everything You Are

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: SPOILERS till 2.10. Some references to torture, mild swearing. Really not as frivolous as it sounds.

**Everything You Are**

d’Artagnan’s tracking gravedirt and mud across the clean floor of the inn’s kitchen; the innkeeper’s wife clicks her tongue in disapproval and chases his mess with a handful of rags. d’Artagnan supposes that he should apologise (if he pauses for a moment, he can almost hear his father chiding him for it), but only an hour ago his biggest worry was if he was ever going to get a warm bath between Gascony and Paris and impress all the beautiful ladies he’s heard about, and now—

now, he’s—here.

He’s here.

 _I should apologise_ , he thinks again, numbly. Instead, he opens his mouth and says, “I need,” clears his throat of the gravel that’s lodged there, continues, “I need a—a pen. And some parchment. And a, a seal, a messenger, a—” He shakes his head. “I need to send a letter.”

Monsieur Boucher, the innkeeper, marches in then; he’s left his muddy boots by the door and washed his feet. A sensible thing to do, d’Artagnan thinks, especially after burying two of his guests in the same afternoon. He should keep that in mind for next time—but what next time? d’Artagnan’s already buried all the family he’s ever had; his family tree is more roots than branches. He’s the last, gasping offshoot—no more Charles d’Artagnan but  _d’Artagnan_  because he’s all that is left—all that’s—all that’s—

–and he can barely  _breathe_  with the force of it—

“Monsieur!” Boucher is holding his shoulders and steering him to a bench in front of the fire. “You are shaking with cold! Come, you must get warmed before you catch a terrible chill and join your poor father, bless his soul.”

d’Artagnan flinches while Madame Boucher swats her husband on the arm.

“Letter,” d’Artagnan says helplessly, as Boucher peels his soaking wet cloak off his body and hangs it by the fire. “I need to—send word to Gascony. To my f-father’s secretary—”

Monsieur Boucher places an empty piece of parchment in front of him, a bent pen and an inkwell. d’Artagnan picks up the pen with shaking hands. His joints are stiff with cold and shock and the ink is old and half-solidified; by the time he’s written the salutation, he feels as though he cannot continue. When drops of water start falling on the parchment, he simply stops, the pen hovering over paper.

“It’s your hair,” Madame Boucher says, placing a mug of steaming tea on the table. She steps behind him, gathering his wet hair and combing it away from his face with her fingers. She then scrubs at his scalp with a warm cloth, and d’Artagnan closes his eyes, revelling in the sensation. “It’s your hair, monsieur,” she says. “It’s just your hair.”

He opens his eyes and writes:  _Father is dead_. His pen does not falter.

“You are going ahead to Paris then, Monsieur?” Boucher asks.

 _I do not know if I will return or not; his legacy will live on, nonetheless_.

“Yes,” he says. “I have some business to settle on my father’s behalf.”

* * *

 

d’Artagnan of Lupiac in Gascony (of the late Alexandre d’Artagnan, interred barely five days ago and he’s going to stop, he’s going to  _stop_ ) raises a cloud of dust as he settles heavily on the bed. He’s sold his horse and nearly half of all he had with him just to afford this for a few days, he’s going to fight a hardened soldier who’d murdered his father to the death, and the lack of  _soap_  is what he feels the most wretched about.

He runs his fingers through his hair and shakes out hay and grey dust. Paris seems determined to make her mark on him anyway she can: she is ground up under carriage wheels and horse hooves and tossed into the air; she hovers in the overflowing gutters and descends from rickety windows in frequent deluges of waste and dirty water. She is on his skin and in every strand of his hair and d’Artagnan feels so terribly unclean, inside and out. He has seen men on the streets, though, with their hair fashionably long, beautiful and thick, and, however absurd the thought is, wonders how they manage to maintain it that way.

 _It’s just your hair, monsieur_.

If he survives his duel with Athos, he decides he’ll ask somebody.

* * *

 

d’Artagnan’s escaped major injury in the whole Vadim fiasco, but he’s bruised and aching all over and decides to take a hot bath to try and alleviate the worst of it on Aramis’ suggestion. A little bit of lavender oil along with the steaming water is just starting to work its wonders when Porthos and Aramis enter the room. d’Artagnan startles so badly that nearly half the bathwater sloshes over the rim of the tub.

If Porthos and Aramis are uncomfortable about walking in on him in such a state, they don’t show it. Porthos goes ahead and picks up his cloak and gauntlets from a shelf while Aramis asks him, kindly, “Do you feel better now?”

d’Artagnan stares.

“There’s still some blood at your temple,” Aramis says, stepping forward slightly. “Maybe I could—”

“Get out,” d’Artagnan says, his voice somewhere between a growl and a scream. He’s shaking, now, and the ache of bruises is now a taut, sharp pain between his shoulder blades. “Get out!”

“d’Artagnan—” Porthos starts, sounding combative, but Aramis places a hand on his arm, silencing him. “Our apologies,” he says smoothly, then steers Porthos out of the room before another word can be said.

d’Artagnan sinks back into the bath and scrubs at his scalp until he’s broken the scab and his fingers are bloody; he stays there for a long time after the bathwater has gone cold. He hasn’t stopped shaking.

* * *

 

d’Artagnan can’t remember a time when, back in Gascony, he and his father struggled to put food on their plates. It was a hard life, but never deficient in anything he needed; he was a healthy, active child growing up, even during that terrible year when illness had swept through their village and taken half its people with it, including d’Artagnan’s mother. He was lean, but wiry and strong; his hair thick and healthy, even when the most he did with it was tie it back when he was in the fields or during sword practice. Paris has been less kind to him, however: what with dwindling income and intensive training, he has had far less to eat. His hair hangs limp and dry no matter how many times he carefully washes it; finally, he decides to employ drastic measures.

“I would be delighted to instruct you on matters of appearance, d’Artagnan,” Aramis says warmly. “Hair is only the beginning! Any step you take to graduate from looking like an overgrown—”

“Don’t you  _dare_  say it,” d’Artagnan says.

“I was going to say ‘sapling’,” Aramis says, looking offended. “That would one day mature into a great… oak tree.”

Porthos looks at d’Artagnan speculatively. “Willow, more like. Yeah?”

Aramis shrugs. “Probably. Although—”

Athos clears his throat loudly. “I’d thought we have enough of vanity here with Aramis and Porthos around.”

“It’s only  _hair_ ,” d’Artagnan protests. “My hair is… high-maintenance.”

Porthos snorts so hard he descends into a coughing fit.

It turns out Aramis is full of suggestions: he lends a few bottles of strong-smelling pomade that he uses on his hair that only serve to clump d’Artagnan’s hair in messy knots and attract more dirt than usual. He then prescribes wheat starch or egg white to be applied for a brief while then thoroughly rinsed out.

“Or better yet,” Aramis tells him, “you could just wear a hat.”

d’Artagnan does consider the suggestion briefly; however, hats always make his hair cleave to his skull and leave his scalp itchy. Besides, he’s not  _quite_  sure where he stands as of yet: not quite a displaced farmer, not quite a soldier. He’ll get the hat when he’s figured it out.

In the meanwhile, he settles for scaring Constance half out of her wits in the middle of the night asking for her help to rinse the damnably stubborn—and  _stinking_ —egg white out of his hair.

* * *

 

He does think about buying a hat after he’s received his commission—he even goes as far as giving his measurements. However, one night, when a drunk Aramis runs his fingers through his hair and tells him sleepily, “That’s so very nice,” all thoughts of hats fly out of his head.

He’s lost his family, his home, everything he owns—but there are still some parts of him that are uniquely  _his_ , and he’s not ready to give that up.

* * *

 

It’s around the time that Athos and Aramis start behaving strangely—preoccupied and nervous and barely talking like they used to—that Porthos starts visiting d’Artagnan’s rooms late at night, complaining of vicious headaches. Neither of them talk about visiting Aramis, which would be the norm in situations like these; instead, d’Artagnan uses one of Aramis’ strong-smelling hair oils to massage Porthos’ scalp, digging his fingers into his temples and working in slow circles backwards. Porthos sits on the floor between d’Artagnan’s legs meanwhile, slack-jawed in relief and comfort.

They don’t talk about this during the day— _ever_ —but some nights Porthos returns the favour, massaging his scalp and slowly combing his fingers through his soft and ever-lengthening hair, and d’Artagnan, for a few moments, feels utterly at peace with both himself and the world.

* * *

 

Constance loves to run her fingers through his hair when they kiss: teasing the curling strands at the nape of his neck, brushing the longer ones away from his face and looping them behind his ear. She braids jasmine flowers into his hair on their wedding night as they lay naked and sweaty beneath crumpled sheets. They are crushed when he grabs her and captures her mouth once again in a bruising kiss; however, he carries the scent with him for days after he has left the garrison—and his wife—for war.

* * *

 

About a year into the war with the Spanish, d’Artagnan is captured by the enemy. He endures the beatings at first with loose bravado, then the torture, starvation, and humiliation with quiet stoicism. Then one day they grab him and shear his hair off completely; they throw him back in his cell and laugh when he runs trembling hands over his bare scalp and, to his horror, cries for the first time since being captured.

He spends six months as a prisoner before being rescued; he is weak and half-blind from too little food and too much darkness, but he aids in the skirmish as much as he can. He makes sure that he is the one to drive his sword through the heart of the guard that enjoyed his torment the most—then allows his knees to give away, and for one of the Musketeers—Porthos, he thinks—to carry him away from the main battle.

d’Artagnan comes back to awareness as Porthos wipes his face with a wet cloth; he’s on his knees, and Porthos is supporting most of his weight.

“Look at you,” Porthos is muttering. “Look at you—I can practically see all your—”

“Porthos,” d’Artagnan says.

“Yeah,” Porthos says, pausing in his ministrations.

“Porthos,” d’Artagnan says again after a few beats, too exhausted to remember to say anything else. It’s been months since he’s spoken French. “ _Porthos_.”

“I’m here,” Porthos says, running a hand across d’Artagnan’s scalp. It’s covered in patchy bristle, and d’Artagnan shudders. “My hair,” he manages.

“I know,” Porthos says, cupping the back of his head.

“My  _hair_ ,” d’Artagnan keens, the loss cutting into him afresh. He blinks rapidly, but has lost too much of his strength and his pride to keep his tears in check.

“Hush,” Porthos says softly. “It’s just hair, d’Artagnan. It’s just your hair. It’ll grow back. You’ll be all right.”

( _it’s just your hair, monsieur_ )

d’Artagnan buries his head in Porthos’ chest, one fist curled in his jacket. They stay like that for a long time.

 ** _Finis_**  


End file.
